


brush the dust off from old, worn memories

by eclipsed (lucitae)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: M/M, Post-Time Skip, i have no idea how to tag this, is it magical realism if gods are involved, semi canon compliant except gods are real?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:01:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25915528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucitae/pseuds/eclipsed
Summary: I spent a majority of my time in high school thinking about you.And that's the thing about awareness: Shinsuke can no longer ignore. His eyes, too, continue to get drawn to one figure. New memories crafted in flickers of silences and when eyes meet.
Relationships: Kita Shinsuke/Suna Rintarou
Comments: 3
Kudos: 61





	brush the dust off from old, worn memories

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nevolos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nevolos/gifts).



> rhom's [sunakita](https://twitter.com/caaarot_/status/1294594722262966275?s=20) made me cry so it's my turn to return the favor i guess. jk. also heavily inspired by [this one](https://twitter.com/caaarot_/status/1294260562398810115)!
> 
> also this is an amalgamation of rhom dreams and my own. a sequel to my other [sunakita fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25825519). not making a series out of it because that one is a good stand alone and this one is just a hot mess.

Kita Shinsuke's fingers brush against the frame of a photograph. A little old now, depicting his team in his final year of high school against the backdrop of Inarizaki's banner. The only ones smiling are Ren and himself — others distracted, wary, guarded — capturing them without the false smiles of a forced photograph or the need to look intimidating. Lips curl at the sight of number 10 to the far right, whose eyes not even focused in the direction of the camera.

Shinsuke wakes to unfamiliarity. 

A stream that has never existed in his memories to his left. Blades of grass along the banks and climbing up the embankment, devoid of any flowers, one undistinguishable from the rest. The sky is amaranth pink, dotted by clouds. The sun an orange yolk half submerged. A city in the horizon. There is no wind, no sound. Just Kita Shinsuke.

A black panther leaps from the embankment in Shinsuke's direction. Its figure lithe. The markings on its face an emerald green much like its eyes, glowing in a way that has Shinsuke wondering if it pulsates in tandem with its heart. Body sleek, no traces of fur — more sculpture than beast.

It studies Shinsuke, then turns. As if waiting for Shinsuke, it halts for a brief moment before it bounds away.

Shinsuke follows.

In here, time is meaningless. In here, muscles don't tire. In here, Shinsuke follows a black panther until it disappears into a hole in the wall as dark as its body.

In here: a leap of faith is the standard.

Fog billows out, odorless. Shinsuke doesn't bat it away because the only sense it steals from him are his eyes. A single blinding moment of hazy white before the fog clears.

It's a small room. Underground. Lit only by the two lamps mounted on the wall: one on each side of the bed. But the light throws the room into swirling pinks and blues, off setting the warm yellows. It makes Shinsuke feel as if he were underwater.

In the place of the panther is a man with a neat robe and long sleeves that flutter despite the lack of wind. The curl of his lips unsettling and out they blow rings of smoke. Again, no scent. Not even an itch as it supposedly caresses Shinsuke's face. The kiseru is held in one hand, a whittled bamboo piece tucked between etched silver. Grandmother's words ring in Shinsuke's mind — this time a warning. The unmemorable face shifts. Hair parts in the center, retracting in length until it sticks out at odd angles, color darkening from silver to black. The unfamiliar becomes familiar as if mocking him for his past transgressions.

 _I bet you didn't think much of me at all_ , the eyes taunt.

"There's no need to be so wary, Kita Shinsuke," the man with eyes of emeralds says as he gestures at the bed for Shinsuke to take a seat in.

Shinsuke doesn't. Corner of his lips curving downwards at the borrowed voice.

A chuckle slips from the man borrowing Suna Rintarou's form. He closes the distance, robes trailing behind him. Shinsuke stares at the wine colored cloth, unperturbed by ornate gold threads. They could almost pass as humble if not for the extravagance of the pipe.

The end of the kiseru settles underneath Shinsuke's chin and if he weren't here, Shinsuke wonders if that touch would have been hot or cold as it burns against his skin. The man tips it, forcing Shinsuke to meet the eyes that shine like emeralds. Up close, they are far more turbulent than they appear to be. "I am the god of all things lost and I have been waiting for you, Shinsuke-kun."

The name is dragged against tongue, on purpose. It feels wrong. Shinsuke doesn't want it there.

Shinsuke realizes, with a start, that he dislikes the way the voice wraps around his name because it doesn't come from the owner of the voice. Not the real one anyway.

"Why?" slips out of Shinsuke before he can stop it.

"Because you called for me."

It doesn't make sense. Shinsuke is far from lost but the eyes of god tell him otherwise.

He steps back from the pipe and takes up a corner of the bed with its hotel grade white sheets.

"That's more like it."

It's frightening the expression this god wears while using Suna Rintarou's skin. Shinsuke has seen apathy, annoyance, and even vulnerability. But this and the way the lights of this room fall upon that face hinders upon cruel. It's foreign. It doesn't belong there.

"I'll show you," the god of all things lost claims. And the fingers attached to an elegant hand Shinsuke has yet to hold press against his forehead, forcing him to fall into the bed.

This time its a familiar room. He's in a maroon athletic jacket staring at lockers lining the walls. The door flings open and Shinsuke turns to find Suna sporting their club athletic wear: zipper undone, a contrast to his own. There's a look of shock. Shinsuke glances at the time and back at Suna's expression. He's early. No one else has arrived yet. And just before he can open his mouth to greet Suna, the scene shifts.

Shinsuke is running a familiar route and quickly identifies it as the one they used to run for training. His breath clouds and dissipates. He looks around and eyes land on the familiar figure behind him. Suns is looking from side to side. They have just ran past the well known short cut Shinsuke has never set foot upon. He's almost tempted to slow down, affirm whether or not he's been transported to the past when the scene dissolves once more.

Again and again they shuffle. As if there are photographs in the hands of god and are cycled through in apathy.

Shinsuke experiences conversations from a distant past and relives parts of matches. But never for long. The one constant becomes Suna Rintarou in all these revisited memories. Shinsuke becomes increasingly aware of how often Suna's gaze drifts in his direction.

 _I spent a majority of my time in high school thinking about you_.

And that's the thing about awareness: Shinsuke can no longer ignore. His eyes, too, continue to get drawn to one figure. New memories crafted in flickers of silences and when eyes meet. Real but not real. His heart aches whenever he recalls a brittle laugh paired with an empty glass.

This time the sequence drops him in the middle of summer. Sky a cloudless blue and sun harsh on his back. Shinsuke raises an arm to block it out as he wipes away the sweat on his forehead. There's a plastic bag in his hand, colorful sticks of chupetto tucked in them. He looks at them, puzzled. These memories don't belong to him.

Summers mean club activities for students like him, remedial lessons for others. Some breaks in between to catch their breath. Assignments that other students normally put off until just days before school comes back in session. But for third years it means time for studying. So what is Kita Shinsuke doing by visiting a conbini for snacks he doesn't eat and taking the path that leads him to the park?

Shinsuke finds his answer in the form of Suna Rintarou on a swing set, a little too big for the playground set. He's almost curled into himself, staring at the ground, kicking dirt rather than swinging. Shinsuke walks towards Suna. If this was the past — the real one, not this stitched together dream — Shinsuke probably would have walked home.

The startled expression on Suna's face quickly dissolves into a neutral one as Shinsuke takes the swing beside him. Neither of them say a word.

Shinsuke rocks on the balls of his feet, the chains suspending the swing sway with him. Suna's gaze falls towards the contents of the bag. Shinsuke notices the bead of sweat that trickles down the side of Suna's face and reaches into the bag. He grabs a chupetto, the coldness of artificially flavored ice seeps through the plastic mold and chills the center of Shinsuke's palm.

"Want one?" Shinsuke asks, holding it out for Suna.

Suna nods.

Shinsuke grabs the two ends of the ice pop and splits it down the middle with a twist. This time when he holds it out Suna takes it.

The tangy taste of lemon bursts on his tongue. It's not until the tube is squeezed empty when Suna admits: "I prefer grape."

It wrangles a laugh out of Shinsuke. "Is that so?" he says with a smile and wonders why Suna's eyes are slightly widened. "Next thing you are going to tell me is that you enjoy chuupet more."

Suna nods. "I do." And Shinsuke makes a note to find the jelly sticks that he doesn't really care for.

_I like you_ , Suna doesn't say so much as gestures with a bundle of red roses at the tail end of summer. They look fresh, water still clinging to petals, two stray stalks of gold tucked in the dozen to make it a bouquet. Shinsuke blinks at it.

He doesn't need gestures like this.

But he looks at Suna's expression, at the clock mounted on the wall, at how Suna's jacket is still unzipped. Suna is still trying to catch his breath from trying to be first in the morning. It's hard to tell if the pink that colors his face is from this, the heat, or the little jog to get here before anyone else. So Shinsuke takes it with both arms.

If this was winter he would have set it on the bench, slotted the ends of Suna's zipper together and pulled it up until his knuckles could brush against the bottom of Suna's chin.

It is not winter. Shinsuke holds the bouquet of roses in his arms for a fraction of a second longer before tucking it away into his locker.

"Thank you," he says.

What surfaces on Suna's lips is a smile, not a grin. And if it weren't for Akagi bursting into the room, Shinsuke might have reached out to hold it between his thumbs.

The months pass. No one in the club is wiser. If Ren has his suspicions, he keeps quiet about them. The same goes for Aran. No one on the team bats a lash when _Suna_ changes into _Rintarou_.

 _Shinsuke_ is uttered in private. After hours. It sounds right this time.

 _This time?_ Shinsuke's brows knit, unable to recall a time before.

Rintarou is on his phone. Shinsuke takes him with one hand and drags him off. Rintarou takes the chance to slip his fingers between Shinsuke's, lacing them together.

The janitor continues about his day.

Not all days are sunny and cloudless. Sometimes it grays. Sometimes it pours.

Shinsuke's jacket dampens, turning dark at the touch of tears. Rintarou's face is buried against Shinsuke's shoulder and Shinsuke holds him until the rain lets up.

 _Not everything has to be proper all the time_ , he echoes what his old teacher once told him, fingers carding through Rintarou's hair. He didn't get it then.

He does now.

Moments that can be missed, the ones so mundane, are Shinsuke's favorite. It begins like this: Rintarou is on his phone, assignments finished, greedy for any excuse to stay connected to Shinsuke. His head is nestled on Shinsuke's thigh as Shinsuke studies. The low table holds one open text book, a stack to the side, a notebook and a few stationeries. Highlighter in hand as he works through the problems.

But the other hand cards through Rintarou's soft hair, holding the locks before letting them fall away. Rinse. Repeat.

Only interrupted by the phone that falls on Rintarou's face.

Shinsuke chuckles, looking down at Rintarou's scowl as Shinsuke rubs the bridge of Rintarou's nose.

Shinsuke and Rintarou are at a fast food chain, sitting on the same side of the table. A studying session, or so Miya Atsumu had called it. Shinsuke had a feeling that it only resembles a studying session because he is present. Otherwise fries might have been flung at faces and the afternoon would have derailed into something entirely different.

Shinsuke circles a problem on Osamu's sheet, flying through it despite it being upside down as he narrates the solution. Rintarou prods at Atsumu through the use of words. Despite elbows being far from each other, Shinsuke's and Rintarou's knees touch beneath the table. Settling their weight against each other, unwilling to pull away.

Graduation arrives far too soon. There's a flower pinned to Shinsuke's chest, close to his heart. The second button long pulled free from its threads the moment pictures were done. It deters others from asking for it. But more importantly, it nestles in the palm of the hand Shinsuke is intent on holding onto.

He blinks. The ceiling still can't decide the color it wants to be despite the light from the two lamps remaining a consistent yellow. The god of all things lost still wears Rintarou's face as he brushes Shinsuke's fringe to the side. The expression on his face smug as he sits to the side with his legs crossed.

"So?" god begins after another drag from his pipe. "Did you like what you see? Do you want them to be real?"

Shinsuke can still feel the sun on his back and lips pressed against his own, blocking out the harsh rays of light from his eyes.

He says nothing. Steeps in false memories.

"You could rewrite all of this. You could have more time. More memories."

Even in the haziness of warmth spilling from the center of his chest, Shinsuke knows that's wrong. His lips tug into a frown. "What happens to us?" To the original memories?

God smiles, emerald eyes swirling. It's the expression a child has prodding at an ant hill, waiting for something interesting, throwing a stone to see the formation of the march shift. "You'll retain the memories of both lives. Suna Rintarou will only remember the rewritten ones."

Shinsuke remembers the taste of frozen artificial lemon syrup on his tongue, the threads of a maroon jacket between his fingers, the scent of roses that lingered in his locker for days. His ears ring with a hollow laugh, surfacing a fragile expression under dim lights. And Shinsuke thinks about how he never wants Rintarou to show such a fragile expression because of him ever again.

Maybe these brand new memories will allow Shinsuke to spend a majority of his final high school days thinking about Suna Rintarou. What then? It doesn't necessarily mean that they will be happier.

"I don't need it," Shinsuke says, eyes boring into green ones. His current memories, their current state is precious. Unmistakably his; unmistakably theirs.

"Are you sure?"

Shinsuke can feel the ghost of Rintarou's hand in his.

He knows how warm they can be now. Desires to unearth the expressions Rintarou has shown them when they were alone — when they were from a lost timeline. And new ones too.

"There's nothing wrong with how we are now," is Shinsuke's answer.

"If you say so."

The face contorts as fog creeps back from the periphery, until the only thing Shinsuke can see in the thick of white smoke are two green specks. 

Shinsuke sits up. He's back in his room. The photograph sits on his shelf and Shinsuke falls back down. He rubs his eyes, keeps the edge of his palm pressed against his lids, desperately trying to hold onto a fading dream. He knows that soon he'll only remember it in fragments. But for now he'll replay what he remembers: lemon ice pops, roses, second buttons. Lemon ice pops, roses, second buttons. Lemon—

The only thing branded in his mind is an elusive smile and _the god of all things lost_.

"Shin-chan," grandmother beckons, "I think you have a visitor."

Shinsuke opens the door and is surprised when he comes face to face with a familiar figure. "Rintarou," slips past his lips ( as if a habit ). "What brings you here?"

There's a gift in his hand, not roses. ( Why did Shinsuke think they would be roses? ) "I..." Rintarou starts, cheeks slowly dusted with a sheen of pink, as if he's broken free from a trance and is only now realizing his actions.

"Come on in," Shinsuke invites, without waiting for Rintarou to complete his sentence, hand curled around Rintarou's to tug him inside. Muscle memory or instinct Shinsuke can't quite differentiate. But there's something missing as Rintarou obediently allows Shinsuke to pull him indoors.

"I've been thinking about you," Shinsuke confesses after he sets the box of shine muscat grapes on the table. He lifts one from the box, fingers digging into the thing plastic wrapping, tearing it open. They look like a cluster of green pearls, shine with even more luster after rinsing with water.

Rintarou, who leans against the frame of the kitchen door, straightens and takes a step forward.

"Even dreamt of you." Not that he remembers the details anymore but its the sole fact that he did that matters.

Rintarou closes the distance until their elbows could bump against each other and be brushed off as an accident.

The stem separates from grape. Shinsuke looks up with a smile.

"Kita-san..." an exhale, much like a prayer. It's not the right word.

Shinsuke drops the grapes onto a plate, hands drying themselves quickly on the towel, before he turns to face Rintarou.

"You don't mind me calling you Rintarou do you?" he studies Rintarou's expression. There's a quick shake of the head. A hand resting against the counter, probably meant to look casual, but Shinsuke can tell it bears more weight than Rintarou lets on. Shinsuke wants to put his hand over it, intertwine them so that the tension seeps out and into the palm of his hand. Instead, he looks at Rintarou and says: "then call me Shinsuke."

"Shinsuke."

It carries more weight. Hangs between them with purpose and Shinsuke thinks that this is what he's been waiting for all along.

Warmth unfurls in his chest. He takes a step closer. His toes touch Rintarou's. Gaze held.

And Shinsuke will hold onto it for a moment longer, so he can etch this into permanence in his memories. So that it never gets lost.

**Author's Note:**

> please give sunakita lots and lots of love ❤
> 
> inarizaki probably doesn't have a gakuran but shhhh shhhh details am i right?
> 
> if you are wondering which photo, it's [this one](https://haikyuu.fandom.com/wiki/Commemorative_Photo).
> 
> again, title taken from [lemon](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KdGirBkkcrw).


End file.
